I Fall Heavy
by Katydear
Summary: he's not here, sir. not anymore. modern au - enjolras x éponine - one-shot plus drabble.
1. Chapter 1

_**i fall heavy **__- les misérables - modern au - enjolras x éponine  
he isn't here, sir. not anymore._

* * *

_Sunday, 11:45am_

Sleepy. Lazing in that luscious fog between slumber and awake, Éponine rolls over to find Enjolras' side of the bed cold. Which is unsurprising, really. It's only really surprising that he's let her sleep quite this long without storming into the bedroom in some sort of tizzy, waving around the Sunday paper.

She stretches out enjoying the spindles of afternoon sun creeping through the window, only mildly aware that the normal smells of Enjolras' typical Sunday brunch haven't yet found her.

Striding through the hallway and into the bathroom she chuckles, "What, no annoying Indie soft rock this week? Thank God!"

Éponine is met with silence in the place of an indignant response as she brushes her teeth. She pokes her head into the hallway, cocking an eyebrow at the lack of defensiveness being hurled her way. Obviously perturbed at her boyfriend ignoring her attempts to fuck with him, she brings her teeth-brushing activities to the front room where Enjolras is not.

At first she assumes he had stepped out to grab the paper, seeing as it wasn't strewn all over the dining room table. Then she figures that it's taking so long, that he must have stopped at the corner market to pick something up.

The fully stocked fridge and cabinets beg to differ.

That's when she realizes something is wrong.

* * *

_Monday, 2:16am_

Wired. She wasn't about to just sit around, but her phone is nearly dead so she goes back to their apartment and plugs it into the socket closest to the door. She'd been calling everyone all day and no one answered, save for Cosette, who knew nothing, aside from Marius assuring her that everything was fine and not to worry. He was probably just stuck working somewhere and not thinking about anyone else. That sounds like him, right?

Marius was always a piss poor liar, but he was good enough about not being found when Éponine wanted to find him. Éponine the whole day going from coffeehouse to café, from Enjolras' office to his classrooms, anywhere that she knew he had ever set foot.

And she still didn't find a single fucking thing.

She slinks onto the floor, back against the wall chewing chewing chewing at her finger nails.

He hates it when she does that. But he's not here, is he? Is he?

No, he's not. He's gone. A terrible thought worms in despite her best efforts. The thought that he was just like everyone else. Just waiting to leave. And that she should have known. What on Earth made her think she was good enough for Apollo?

It's so fucking quiet.

She slams her the back of her head into the wall so hard the baseboards shake and the sound echoes around the room. But when she closes her eyes, she could almost feel his fingertips on her face, his breath next to her lips. Words like 'I love you' and 'I'm yours' and 'I can't breathe without you' slip into her ears.

Somehow she knows something is keeping him from her.

* * *

_Tuesday, 7:35am_

Vigilant. She sits stick straight on the couch staring at some soggy cereal, the morning news blaring in the background. Her conscious is telling her that it's time to involve the police, but besides her general dislike of the authorities, her instincts are fighting against it.

Then something catches from the cardboard stiff anchorwoman: "…late Saturday night. A group broke into the facility and then fled when security was alerted to their presence. One guard is left in stable condition at the hospital, while one of the perps is believed to have suffered critical wounds. If you or-"

No one got a good look at any of the intruders, but she would bet every dollar to her name she shares a bed with one of them.

Or shared. Past tense.

She tosses the full bowl at the television with a satisfying clang, milk and bits of cornflakes slogging down the screen. Busted glass litters the the cute shaggy blue rug she begged him for. Immediately remembering it's Enjolras' television - all of this is his - she gets up and cleans her mess.

With a grimace she shakes her head, taking to her hands and knees to pick glass out of the carpet fibers.

Her instincts are always right.

* * *

_Wednesday, 2:03pm_

Alert. She sprints though the apartment toward the door. Strong, staccato knocks resonate through the apartment as she fusses with the dead bolts.

It takes a moment. Enjolras insisted on so many deadbolts. Which she had always found weirdly paranoid, until she opened the door to two plain-clothed detectives.

They just wanted to ask Mr. Enjolras a few questions, this is his apartment, isn't it?

Swallowing her distaste, she invites them in. She informs them that, no, he is not here, and yes, she does live there as well. No, her name is not on the lease. She has shit credit. Funny, huh? They can look around as long as they'd like with that warrant. But she hasn't seen Enjolras, no sir, not for a few days. He had been working very hard on his dissertation and took off for some solitude. The last push for a PhD can be tiring for anyone. Did you try the library?

As she shows the satisfied detectives the door, her lips say that she will most certainly call them if she hears anything, but her mind is screaming praises for a man smart enough to cover his tracks.

* * *

_Thursday, 5:30am_

Is there a word for disappointment so deep it cuts into your bones and turn all of your organs into bottomless pits?

Cosette has to start her shift at the hospital. She gives Éponine's hand a soft squeeze before she walks through the big sliding glass doors. They have been up all night, using Cosette's hospital clearance to search for blonde haired John Does.

Enjolras' ability to leave no trace is no longer a gift.

* * *

_Saturday, 10:28pm_

Lost. She dosen't know where the time has gone. It feels like all she does is take boiling hot showers and stare at her never-ringing phone.

Sometime she just lays on his side of the bed, curled around his pillow, having no clue what to do next. She doesn't want to. She wants to do something proactive, but she doesn't know what.

She wants to stop feeling so useless, but when she closes her eyes she can feel his hands rubbing her back. Smell the clean scent of his soap.

Maybe she should cry, but she doesn't.

* * *

_Sunday, 3:46am_

Awake. The haze of fitful sleep evaporates as soft knocks are heard from the door. Soft, but deafening in the silence that she has been dwelling. The food that she didn't eat for dinner crashes to the floor with the coffee table as she jumps off the couch.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," she says to the door. "I'm coming."

Her fingers fly over the locks. Too many locks. Too many fucking locks.

She couldn't tell if it was worse or better than she had hoped. He was alive, slung between Joly and Combeferre, looking thin in borrowed clothes. Golden hair limp, obscuring his mangled nose. Swollen, scabbed lips hanging open with labored breathing. They push past her and into the apartment as they decide to not be bothered by her answering the door in only a t-shirt and underwear.

"He's been with us for about a week now," Combeferre explains, working with Joly to place Enjolras comfortably on the couch. "I'm sure you heard the news and put two and two together. He almost got away, but a few of the guards we able to jump him. He made us promise not to bring him to you until things quieted down. Made us promise not to call, too. Didn't want this coming back to you. None of us did, Éponine. We all made this decision."

She whispers "Not me," but nods anyway, watching Enjolras' eyelids flutter as his chest rises and falls. He's alive. At least. He's alive.

"He'll be out of it for a little while," Joly says before pressing an orange prescription bottle into her hand. "I've got him on some pain killers. You might try to give him another one when he wakes up, though he usually refuses until about midnight. Don't worry, it's nothing too, too serious. Nothing the hospital could've helped with. Just some broken ribs, a twisted ankle and… well, his nose might never look the exact same… but I've seen worse."

She nods again, her eyes unable to leave the dark yellow bruises that stain the skin under her lover's eyes. Combeferre puts a hand on her shoulder. She realizes she's been crying. "Éponine. You can handle this, right?"

Something churns in her chest that she can't quite put a finger on, but she meets his strong gaze with her own wide eyes. One last nod and the two men leave the apartment muttering about stopping by tomorrow afternoon, shutting the door quietly behind them. Out of habit, Éponine turns around, sliding the locks back into place.

Now the room should be quiet, but it's buzzing. Thrumming along to the feeling in her chest. The urgency of the moment is gone and she finds herself unable to look at him with the other two men gone, so she busies herself wiping the tears away from her cheeks.

Cautiously, inch by inch, she makes her way toward him. She sits next to his heavy body on the couch, folding her bare legs underneath her.

When she is finally able to look at his broken face once more, she understands the heat coiling in her chest. She brushes a lock of hair from his closed eyes and whispers, "I can't believe they've done this to you."

At the sound of her voice he turns into her, a sleepy smile ghosting over his lips, causing them to crack and a trickle of blood to trail down his pale skin.

And now she understands. She understands how hurt, how wrathful he must have felt whenever he saw her broken. How someone like Enjolras must feel something terrible coursing through him whenever it happens to anyone.

Why they are so, so wrong when they call him marble. He must feel more than any of them combined. This is why he risks everything. Why he could risk the life they've made together. Because they can do this to a man who is strong enough to fight for what's right, so what are they capable of doing to those who can't fight back?

This has to end, and even if he can't end it, he will never stop trying.

And she won't ever ask him to again.


	2. Epilogue

**_epilogue / into your arms  
edited 6.24.13 for clarity. thanks to _**_Fanpire101**  
**_

_a few Sundays later, 9:32am_

Content. Like a cat, Enjolras lays out in the checkered sunlight beaming through the open window, soaking in the warmth and fresh air. He hasn't had that for a little while now, so he enjoys it when Éponine decides to leave the window open.

And if he is a sleepy cat, then Éponine is a wound up puppy, crashing through the door and effectively shattering his Vicodin induced haze.

"Did you hear about this!?" she calls out, brandishing a few rolled up pages of what he assumes must be the Sunday paper.

"No," he says with a smile, his silver voice still rough with rust. "How could I have possibly heard about anything? I haven't gotten to hobbling about the apartment quite yet this morning."

Her smile widens, ending lopsided and entrancing and endearing. With a flick of her wrist she tosses the pages at him, choosing that exact moment to hop on the bed and send his still sore body bouncing.

Gritting his teeth at the jostle, he picks up the wayward papers and shuffles them onto his lap as Éponine points out the story she intends for him to read. But it's quite hard to read when she's perched on the foot of the bed with her amber eyes so full of gleeful anticipation.

"Would you like to just tell me about it?"

"No no!" She exclaims, crinkling her perfect little nose and flinging her hands at him.

So he turns his gaze away from the way the morning sunlight has shaded her high cheekbones such a lovely bronze and begins to read. He only makes it about three paragraphs before letting out a haughty scoff, even by his own standards.

Then she leaps on top of him, loud and quick, landing squarely on his hips.

"I've missed that sound." She leans in and meets his newly healed lips with her own. Soft and hungry. Tender and forceful. Her hips begin to rock involuntarily against his as a small growl escapes from her throat.

He let's out a painful hiss. She draws back, resting her weight on her knees. He pulls his lips into a thin line to stop from crying out as a dull pain licks his rib cage. But he knows he can't keep the lust out of his eyes.

She gives him another one of her deadly slow smiles, her eyes the color of whiskey and want. With a warm fingertip she traces the new, jagged track of his regal nose. He can't help a smile from turning the corners of his mouth as she then presses the calloused pad of her finger into the white scar that now slices into his upper lip.

"Now we're both scarred, rich boy."

Then its his turn to surprise her, sweeping her into his arms and maneuvering her onto her back. A classic move of his, and secretly her favorite. But his hips don't exactly settle between her legs as they should when he rolls on top of her.

A sharp inhale, a grunt and he freezes, the momentarily forgotten pain of his battered ribs returning in full force.

"Are you-"

"Yes," another strained grunt. "This wasn't my best idea."

"Should I-"

"No no, just-" Éponine bites her lips to stifle her laughter, but his voice remains casual despite the tautness of his body, "just give me a minute."


End file.
